A New Idea About Kissing
by BlinovitchLimitationField
Summary: When the echoes of a million lifetimes threaten to tear Clara's mind apart, she's rescued by the last savior she'd ever expect: that 'grumpy old cow', the TARDIS. Unfortunately for Clara, sanity comes at a rather steep price: periodic possession by a certain bitey mad lady who's growing ever-fonder of being human. 11/Clara, 11/Idris.


**TRENZALORE  
**

* * *

He's her clever boy… and so, he runs.

The Doctor always forgets how much stronger Vastra is than she looks. She's bearing most of his weight, his arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist. Jenny scouts ahead, nimbly scaling the treacherous terrain, showing them the easiest paths to take.

Strax plods just behind, Clara's unconscious body sagging in his arms.

The Doctor hates to admit how much it bothers him, not being able to carry Clara himself. Strax is doing it _all wrong_, hefting Clara like a particularly ungainly sack of flour, heedless of how one of her arms dangles free and her left bootheel drags over the hills they crest.

Not that the Doctor would actually _want_ Strax to carry her like he himself would... clutched against his chest like a treasure, cradling the back of her head with his palm, pausing every few seconds to press a kiss to her forehead.

He frowns, realizing just how much imagining Strax in his place bothers him, and makes a note to scold himself about it later.

He _feels_ the TARDIS before he sees her, stumbling a bit as they breach the outer edges of the telepathic field and the full brunt of his ship's anger screeches through his mind.

"Oh, God, not _now_, Sexy," he mutters, rubbing his aching temple.

"Beg pardon," Vastra sniffs.

"Sorry, sorry, not you, Vastra, I mean… not that you're not, er — talking to the TARDIS, you see, she's in a bit of a strop…"

"I see. Given that she's our only means of leaving this awful place, perhaps you should start apologizing."

"Right," he swallows sourly.

"Sir! Sir, the boy is making noise!" Strax lifts Clara's head closer to his ear. "He's saying 'plug me back in', sir! An obvious warning of an imminent invasion!"

"Plug her back in?" Vastra repeats, brow ridges skyrocketing. "Back into what? Your timestream?"

"That _can't_ be it..." The Doctor smacks his head like it's a vending machine that won't dispense his crisps. "Sexy, if you'd stop that for one moment, please, I can't think with you…"

His eyes widen, taking in the constellation of small wounds on Clara's palm. "... _in my head_…"

"The telepathic circuits!" He wheels around to grin daffily at Vastra. "That's what she's wanting to be plugged back into... we did it earlier! It's how I got the coordinates to come here in the first place..."

He surges forward, and Vastra has to catch him as his knees give out again.

"What will that accomplish?" Vastra asks.

"Don't know. Not even sure which one of them it's meant to help. Any alternate ideas, though?"

Vastra shakes her head.

"Geronimo, then."

* * *

He half-expects the TARDIS to refuse to let them in, but her doors swing wide before he's even touched them.

"Is that... a _bed_?" Jenny exclaims once they've staggered inside.

It _is_ a bed, or a mattress at least, made up with bedding and tucked against the curve of the lower area beneath the floor of the console. The cable for the telepathic circuit has lengthened considerably, dangling from the main pillar through the floor to rest upon the pillow.

"It would appear your ship approves of the idea," Vastra says. "Which is frankly somewhat worrisome, given her historical animosity towards your companion. Doctor, are you _certain_ it was Clara speaking earlier, when she asked to be plugged in?"

"The TARDIS would never hurt her," the Doctor insists. He frowns at the extremely dubious look Vastra shoots him. "Look, you don't know her like I do. She may play the occasional _prank_..."

Vastra inclines her head. "Your decision, of course." Her silken tone perfectly conveys that she thinks he's being an idiot.

Strax sets Clara down... and with a last, not-quite-as-confident glance at Vastra, the Doctor kneels beside the mattress and reconnects the telepathic circuit.

Clara's eyes snap open. Her irises are completely rolled back; all that can be seen is golden light.

"That's... not good, is it?" Jenny stammers, drawing back.

The Doctor lunges for the cable, but Clara's rising, her head slowly turning towards the Doctor in a way that chills him to the bone. It's not just the deadlights in her eyes; it's the way she _moves_, like a marionette on strings...

"Trust me, my thief," Clara whispers. "I can help."

And then the puppet strings are cut; she falls back bonelessly against the pillow.

"Her _thief_?" Vastra echoes, helping the Doctor to his feet. "What did Clara mean by that?"

"That wasn't Clara. That was the..."

They're rocked sideways as the TARDIS lurches, her center column flaring to life as levers and switches begin to move themselves.

Jenny's holding on to the upper railing for dear life. "Where's she taking us?"

With Vastra's help, he makes it up the stairs, pulling the monitor towards him.

"Home," he says. "She's just taking you lot home... or Clara is."

* * *

"I don't know where I am," Clara croaks.

A moment later, she realizes that isn't true. She's in the console room of the TARDIS... but not the one she'd first stepped into from the Maitland's driveway a million lifetimes ago.

This is the TARDIS of the youngest Doctor, the _first_ Doctor, the one she'd met in the repair shop on Gallifrey.

Tears sting her eyes when she recognizes it, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

_It isn't over. God help me, it isn't over._ She'd thought her Doctor had come for her, saved her, pulled her back into her own time... had she only dreamt it? Wished it?

She hears footsteps behind her, and her heart sinks. What face would death wear _this_ time?

"Newer than you know," the woman behind her smiles.

Clara takes a step back. "Oi! This is new."

The woman laughs, and Clara's brain seems to stutter.

_Did she just reply to me before I'd actually spoken?_

The woman looks... well, she looks _daft_, honestly, like someone straight out of _Harry Potter_. Her brunette hair spills wildly from a half-made updo, and her bustled dress is a tattered confection of spiderwebby lace.

"Idris," the woman says. "Well, just the once. And I believe _you_ call me 'the old cow'? Terribly rude. I do like 'sexy' better... but not, I think, from you. Idris will do for now."

"You're... you're the _TARDIS_," Clara stutters in shock.

"Funny you should bring that up."

"And you're... human?"

Idris circles the long-ago console, trailing her fingers along the assorted levers and switches. "It's a terrible feeling, you know. Having two of me in the same place. It's awful."

"We could go somewhere else," Clara says, then frowns. "But why are you here at all? You hate me. I suppose I can properly ask now... _why_ do you hate me?"

"It's so hard to latch on to just one time, and I do hate repeating myself. Of course, you have the same problem now, don't you? Holding onto just one line of linear time. That's why I'm doing this... at least, I think it might be."

"You hate me because of... linear time?"

"Oh, wait!" Idris taps her lips with a finger. "I've forgotten something again, something important. There's meant to be a pregnant pause, where I look at you like you're ever so stupid. Was that before? Perhaps it was. Better late than never, I suppose…"

She fixes Clara with a condescending look, crossing her arms.

"So, er... I'm meant to figure something out myself, then?" Clara mirrors Idris' confrontational posture.

"Wouldn't be the first time you've looked this particular problem in the face," Idris snorts. "Oh, don't just stare, all _confused_. It's a perfectly well-made joke, and it's hardly my fault your little brain can't handle anything but the punch line."

Clara presses the heels of her hands to her forehead. "Look… _Idris_, is it? I'm sure this is terribly funny to you, but I've had one hell of a day, and I'm really not up for riddles right now. I'm here to save the Doctor, right? So just… tell me what I have to do."

Idris merely cocks an eyebrow.

"Wait... is that it?" Clara asks. "Is that the thing I'm meant to figure out? Because it _is_ different, this time… I never remembered being _me_ before, I never knew what I was getting myself into. Something's changed, but what?"

"You're quite welcome," Idris chuckles.

Clara blinks at that, but continues. "And it… it doesn't _hurt_. I remember it _hurting_, like I was awake, really and truly _awake_ for just a second… but it was way too much. Too much _stuff_ in my head, but now…"

Clara pauses. "Is it because of you? It is, isn't it? You're doing something... you're why it isn't hurting at the moment. I... well... thank you."

Idris smiles pleasantly, but says nothing.

"You already said 'you're welcome'," Clara realizes. "_Before_ I said 'thank you'… just like you did earlier, answering before I'd asked the…"

Idris leans against the center panel, nodding.

"Have you been doing that this whole conversation?" Clara asks, then smacks her forehead. "And you just nodded. Before I asked that. Oooh, this is going to _melt my brain_…"

It's Clara's turn to circle the console, pacing as she thinks. "I suppose... that must mean… every time I've asked you a question that you didn't answer, it was because you'd already answered it. Right! And you said you hate repeating yourself! Okay, I can do this..."

"I asked you why you hated me," Clara bites her lip, trying to remember. "I asked you why you hated me, and what did you say before that? You said… something about…"

Idris taps the console delicately with her middle finger. "So close."

Clara's face falls. "Oh. Right. That was it… you just complained about being so close to another TARDIS. Never mind. I thought I had it for a moment."

"You're almost there."

"What's the _point_ of this?" Clara explodes in frustration. "Why would you help me clear my mind if we're just going to play stupid guessing games? You _know_ what's just happened to me... a million copies all... all _scrunched_ inside my head! I've been Gallifreyan, Dalek, Ood, Silurian, Auton… whatever the Doctor needed, whatever could save him, whatever could get him where he needed to go…"

Clara's eyes fly wide.

"Clara…" Idris says, taking a small step towards her.

Clara reaches down, her fingertips brushing over a set of toggle switches. "Funny you should say that. I was just about to ask what your real name was."

* * *

Patience has never been one of the Doctor's strongest virtues.

In the first hour that Clara is unconscious and the TARDIS is ignoring him, he tries and fails to read five different books, invents a new genre of vuvuzela thrash metal, and stumbles across the Lost Colony of Roanoke playing cricket in the arboretum.

Unable to face a second hour, he flops down on the mattress next to Clara and forces himself to sleep.

It's better than thinking, which he's already done far too much of. Somewhere in between the cricket and the thrash metal, the Doctor had miserably run through every possible scenario for what Clara would be like when she woke up.

_If_ she woke up.

_If_ she was ever okay again.

He'd imagined her overloading like Donna, imagined having to wipe her memory, imagined leaving her in that little attic bed at the Maitlands and walking away forever.

He'd imagined her waking up bitter and resentful, twisted and poisoned by a million agonizing deaths, staring at him with old, hard eyes like Amy had. She'd tell him he hadn't been worth it… not nearly worth it at all.

But in the end, he wakes up groggily to Clara staring at him — bright brown eyes now, no hint of gold — and booping him on the nose.

"Good morning, thief!" she chirps.

"Oh, Clara," he sighs in disappointment. "You're still the TARDIS."

"Want to hear a secret?"

He frowns. "I suppose…?"

Clara leans in, whispering against his earlobe. "I've _always_ been the TARDIS."

The Doctor sits up so fast, he smacks his forehead against a floor support and collapses right back down with a groan.

"Clara, you're not the bloody TARDIS, you're just... plugged in to it. I've met the TARDIS, okay? She's very... bitey."

Clara just grins, holding up her palm in front of his eyes; she pulls the cable from her hand and tosses it aside. "Don't need this any longer. You were right, you know, the day you met her; a living, sentient computer _can_ hack a human mind. Wireless connectivity."

The Doctor's eyes widen in growing alarm. He rises more carefully, cupping Clara's cheek with his hand. "Sexy… if that's you... you _have_ to get out of her. A human body can't handle it, you _know_ that, you know what it did to…"

"How funny! When you touch her, it gets all tingly and interesting. Hmm, even in the lower bits…" Clara's eyes dart to the side, then back to him. "Sorry, Clara's being _very_ distracting. Keeps ordering me to shut up for some reason…"

"_Tingly_, hmm?" The Doctor can't quite suppress his smirk or delighted head-bob.

"Where was I? Oh, right." She straight-arms two clumsy pats to his head. "There, there, don't fret. Just test-driving, not staying long enough to do any damage. I'll be back for teatime, though."

Clara's body sags, and the Doctor just manages to catch her before the back of her skull knocks against the wall.

"Er, hello," the real Clara says, a fierce blush creeping over her cheeks.

"There you are, my Impossible Girl," he grins goofily, brushing her hair back from her face. "Would it over-tingle your bits if I said I was incredibly happy to see you?"

Clara smacks him lightly on the arm. "Oi, shut up. _You're_ a fine one to throw stones about machines in your head saying flirty things you don't mean."

"Hmm, yes, _about_ that…"

"I'll explain as much as I can," Clara promises, "But can we be eating while I do it? I'm so hungry, I'm actually hallucinating the smell of roasting meat."

"Ah, that's not a hallucination, that's the Lost Colony of Roanoke. Colonists, you know… always have loved a barbecue. _Not_ as keen on thrash metal, more's the pity. Shall we join them?"

"I've played _Oregon Trail_, Doctor. I'm not ending the weirdest day of all my lives by picking grilled squirrel out of my teeth, thank you. Comfort food, please… familiar, boring, preferably drowned in so much gravy you have to roll me back here on a trolley."

The Doctor plants a swift kiss to her forehead and holds out his hand. "I know just the place."

* * *

"_Perfect_," Clara sighs happily.

She's not sure if they're actually on Earth, and she doesn't even care. The Doctor's tucked them into a secluded booth in something that at least _looks_ like a proper old pub.

Rain pounds against the leaded glass windows, not quite drowning out the crackle of multiple fireplaces or the low din of neighboring conversation.

She's wonderfully warm, ever so slightly sleepy, and absolutely stuffed to the brim with the best Sunday roast she's had since her gran was alive. She wants to compliment the cook, or possibly kidnap them.

And, for once, the Doctor actually looks like he belongs somewhere. The heat of the roaring fires has coaxed him out of his vest and overcoat, leaving just rolled-up shirtsleeves and braces; he's even removed his precious bow tie in order to undo a few shirt buttons. Most of the other men are wearing versions of the same outfit, and Clara idly wonders what year it is.

The Doctor looks younger this way, more human. The flickering glow traces his cheekbones in shadows, repaints his eyes in mossy greens and steely grays. It's a little hard for her to look at him; when the light hits him just so, he's so beautiful it almost hurts her eyes.

She wonders what the other patrons think of them. A good-looking young man after a hard day, having a drink with his girl?

But she's _not_ his girl, of course, and it's silly of her to even think about that sort of thing. The _hard day_ part is definitely accurate, but he's far from an ordinary bloke if you know where to look.

For starters, there's his pint… exiled to the far edge of the table, with his one experimental mouthful promptly spat back into the glass and pronounced vile and poisonous.

Then there's the full-body shudder of horror he'd gone into when her plate arrived, mouthing the word "sprouts" like the name of an ancient nemesis.

For himself, he's ordered a bowl of chips and a sticky toffee pudding... apparently, more to serve as a playset for the chips than to actually eat. He's poked chips into the sponge cake until it resembles a hedgehog, then used the remainders as custard and toffee paintbrushes.

"I'd say the gravy's been accomplished, wouldn't you? Explanation time, then." He tosses another greasy, toffee-laden chip into his mouth, and Clara tries not to gag.

"Well, first off. The TARDIS has agreed to be a sort of... external hard drive for me."

"For the echoes?"

"For their memories, yeah. Without her help, I was... there was too much. I remember _all_ of them... well, all except one..."

"But how can you know there's an echo you don't remember?"

"Most of my echoes were human. Some were... other forms of life." She watches his face, gets to the point. "One of them was a Mark 40 TARDIS."

He instantly chokes on his chip, gurgling for a moment before finally managing to swallow. "You _what_? You were a TARDIS? Seriously?"

"Not _a_ TARDIS. _Your_ TARDIS."

His mouth falls open cartoonishly. "But… but that's…"

"Is 'impossible' the word you're looking for?" she smiles.

The Doctor's hands flail wildly for a moment before they remember how to point at her.

"_You're_ my spaceship… _and_ the Time Lady who told me to steal her. I've spent the last millennium traveling around _inside you_, while a million _other_ yous ran around dying for me everywhere I went."

"Basically? Yeah."

"Blimey, Clara," the Doctor grins wickedly. "There's such a thing as _too keen_."

She beats him with her tiny clutch purse the entire walk back, and he never once stops cackling with laughter.


End file.
